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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28749015">The Absence of Feeling</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavenderLizards/pseuds/LavenderLizards'>LavenderLizards</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prodigal Son (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anxiety, Dissociation, F/M, Hugs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 03:33:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,061</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28749015</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavenderLizards/pseuds/LavenderLizards</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A little breakdown of the final scene of Season 2 Ep 1. ***Spoiler Warning*** This is more of a psychological dive into Malcolm than anything else.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Malcolm Bright &amp; Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright/Dani Powell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Absence of Feeling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Can you do something for me?” </p><p>Malcolm’s heart stuttered.</p><p>“Come closer. To the line.” </p><p>He regards the barrier as bold as a beautiful poisonous snake between him and his father. Even without lips or a tongue, it tells to him to turn around, to walk away. ‘Deny the request,’ his common sense tempts in a seductive whisper, but he stuffs it down and walked forward. </p><p>The steps are small but the difference is vast. He steels his gaze, looks up at the monster who made him, and waits. </p><p>It only takes a moment - a split second - the same space that could be occupied by a single blink, an exhale, a heartbeat. His father moves, darting out, and grasps his hand in an iron grip.</p><p>It’s jarring how quickly the man can move. He is older and larger and chained, but it doesn’t matter. In a single skip of time, he has Malcolm trapped. </p><p>At first, the profiler can’t help but react naturally, his face shifting from steeled resolve, to confusion, to terror. He is an animal ensnared, wounded, waiting to be devoured by his father's sharp teeth and manipulative tongue. </p><p>But as quickly as the fear appears, it flees. His face smooths when he realizes that this is the extent of the assault. Even worse, the hold seems to quiet his mind and tether his wayward sanity to a sense of safety that he hadn’t felt in years.</p><p>Well...one year exactly.</p><p>He flashed back to his living room, to Endicott’s lifeless body on the floor. How easily his father had wormed his way out of the cellphone pressed hot against his face and wrapped around him like an invisible security blanket. That deceptively soothing voice had anchored him then, just as this unwelcome touch was anchoring him now.</p><p>How was that possible? To be in the clutches of Satan's clawed hands and feel grateful? As if he were an angel caught mid-fall. </p><p>The whiplash of the entire situation had his mind spinning, a headache forming at his right temple as he grappled with the dichotomy. </p><p>“Thank you for saving my little girl,” Martin said, dragging Malcolm back to the reason why Martin had made this move.</p><p>It was an odd thing to say. He expected the words to be, “thank you for saving your sister.” Or, “thank you for saving Ainsley.” </p><p>He swallowed, but his mouth was dry, tongue clinging to his own teeth. </p><p>The wording made it sound like she was Martin’s child, but...Malcolm wasn’t? He couldn’t explain it but it felt like another step of separation. One that reminded him of his attempts to distance himself by changing his last name to Bright, or calling his father, “Dr. Whitly,” instead of “Dad.” </p><p>“Malcolm?” Whitly asked softly, the word floating to the profiler who was entrenched in his own thoughts like a dream. The doctor looked mildly concerned. His boy seemed...off...like he was drifting.</p><p>Malcolm was too many conflicting emotions encapsulated in an already fragile psyche, teetering on the edge of dissociation just as he had that night with Endicott’s body. </p><p>Martin moved to release Malcolm’s hand, loosening his grip and letting his fingers drag along his boy’s soft skin. But before he could dissolve their connection, Malcolm moved forward and pushed his hand back into Martin’s. </p><p>“No, don’t let go,” he had found his voice and it sounded wobbly. </p><p>He felt as fragile as a child, clinging to Martin for answers, for comfort, for more of the praise he felt so inclined to give right now.</p><p>“Oh, Malcolm…”</p><p>His name is spoken again, but with a different inflection. The concern was gone, replaced with a piteous affection.   </p><p>The effect it had on Malcolm was immediate, and he hated that. Tears sprang to his eyes and he belatedly observed that he was standing directly on the red line exuding desperation and...something else. Longing to get closer, to understand, to be loved. It was a feeling deep and sharp that itched beneath his soul, wriggling under the surface of his skin.</p><p>Every questionable thought he’d ever had about his father, every hallucination that took a violent turn, every creeping dream that made him wake up screaming was crashing down upon him, flooding his memory with ferocity. </p><p>“I- I shouldn’t…” he shook his head slightly, but the thoughts wouldn’t dislodge; and seemingly, without his consent, his thumb began to rub at the back of the doctor’s hand. </p><p>The palm in his was warm and heavy and when he pressed his thumb against the meat below Martin’s thumb, he felt the pounding pulse rushing beneath his skin. </p><p>That lifeblood, that river rapid of humanity, it reminded him of the spray of Endicott’s blood across his face and the terror he felt in that moment. His grip on reality tilting, like a misstep on an uneven sidewalk, the ground rushing up to meet him. A year had gone by, and yet, he was still falling. Falling down, down and away from what was safe and sane and towards his father. </p><p>“You shouldn't, what Malcolm?” </p><p>What could he say? How could he answer?</p><p>I shouldn’t have broken the law and subverted justice? I shouldn’t feel comforted by the warm, murderous hand you’ve extended me? I shouldn’t have experienced a complete absence of thought and feeling as I tore into flesh and bone? I shouldn’t be standing here now, vulnerable and in crisis, pliable for your manipulation?</p><p>There was no right answer. There were a dozen things he shouldn’t have done and a dozen more that he would have to do if he wanted to protect his secret - like lying to his team. Not to mention, this was a secret that Martin would undoubtedly lord over him as blackmail material at some point.</p><p>‘No, he wouldn’t do that,’ his mind piped up. ‘He wants to protect Ainsley just as much as you do.’</p><p>‘Does he?’ he argued with himself. ‘He’s a sociopath. All he cares about is himself and his leverage, and what greater leverage is there than this?’</p><p>‘Have faith in him.’</p><p>‘Have faith?! In my killer of a father? In this monster of a man? Trust a snake that’s wrapped around my hand and filled with venom?’</p><p>In the mental fog of arguing with himself, Malcolm only floated further away. He was unmoored from the present moment, rocked back and forth by conflict, drowning in an endless ocean of doubt and self loathing. </p><p>If only he could learn how to turn it off. </p><p>Martin certainly didn’t feel bad for Endicott’s demise or Malcolm saving Ainsley. So why did he?</p><p>He could either be tortured by what he had done...or he could forsake his humanity in favor of feeling nothing at all. And thus, become his father.</p><p>The looming figure before him moved closer and brought Malcolm into a pseudo hug. </p><p>Martin’s hands remained cuffed together and chained at his waist, so he could do nothing more than rest his head on Malcolm’s shoulder. </p><p>The weight of it was surprising. </p><p>It tugged Malcolm back to the moment, back to himself. </p><p>“Oh, I so wish I could hug you my boy,” he said softly, the words tickling Malcolm’s ear just as his beard tickled Malcolm’s cheek. The jut of his chin felt sharp on the join of Malcolm’s neck and shoulder and Malcolm realized that his hands were moving. He had undone their handshake and was snaking his arms through Martin’s. </p><p>A hug.</p><p>The sweater beneath his hands was softer than it had any right to be. It smelled faintly of detergent, soap and sweat. He drug his fingers along its surface and let his own chin rest on Martin’s shoulder. </p><p>He felt so solid. So real. </p><p>It was bizarre. Like looking at one of those pictures that shifts when you tilt it. </p><p>It had been twenty years since Malcolm had hugged his father. He doesn’t even recall the last hug that probably occurred on some inauspicious day before heading off to school or returning home from piano lessons. And he was no longer eight, no longer waist-height, no longer whole. </p><p>Tears carved tracks down his face and cooled as the thrumming heater gently churned the stale air around them. </p><p>“My boy,” Martin cooed, delighted by the turn of events but undoubtedly worried by his son’s concerning display. “It’s alright. Everything’s going to be alright.” </p><p>Malcolm gripped him tighter, turning his head to hide in Martin’s neck. </p><p>Of course, Martin had no idea if everything would be alright. That all depended on his boy’s ability to maintain a cool facade. And let’s be honest - dealing with trauma and hiding emotions were not his strong suits. </p><p>Everyday he was working with cops. Friends who were like family. People that he would have to look at and lie to. Was he capable of it? </p><p>Martin did not know, and in a startling moment, he realized that he very much cared. The thought of Malcolm or Ainsley or both of them rotting in a prison like himself was...an idea too painful to entertain.<br/>
Tears gathered at his own eyes, stinging and burning before they fell down his round cheeks and disappeared into the thatch of his beard. </p><p>As a killer, he had done a spectacular job of severing any and all empathy that he might have. But his children...they were an extension of him. They were his legacy. Them being in trouble was homogeneous to him being in trouble. </p><p>And while he may be grateful for this act awakening his boy to his true nature...he certainly did not want it to cost him his freedom.</p><p>“I love you Malcolm,” he offered, proud that he had practiced saying the words in therapy. Although, they felt different now. The weight of the syllables was heavy on his tongue and the concept was something his brain struggled with. But it was the truth. If he loved anything in the world - anything at all - it was Malcolm.</p><p>“Dad, I -”</p><p>The click of the bolts on the door behind Malcolm jolted him out of the hug. He retracted his arms and slid back across the line as if electrocuted. </p><p>Martin hated it. Hated the interruption, hated that his hands had been trapped between he and his son and he couldn’t hug him back. In that moment, he would have given nearly anything to hug his boy back. </p><p>The formidably heavy door swung open. </p><p>Malcolm pawed at his face to destroy the evidence of his tears and then pivoted to see who it was. </p><p>Dani Powell stood inside the cell with Mr. David. </p><p>“Bright,” she said, “I uh - we need to go. We have a lead.” </p><p>“Right,” Malcolm swallowed and blinked and tried to remember how to function. He could feel the heft of her gaze upon him, scrutinizing him, observing the strand of hair out of place and the dried tears on his face - his red cheeks and defeated posture. </p><p>“I’ll see you later,” Malcolm said more to the concrete floor than to Martin. </p><p>But Martin had to get him to look, had to get him to see that he had shed his own tears. </p><p>“Malcolm,” Martin said, his voice splintering on the word, the tether pulled taut and vibrating as he moved too far forward. The belt dug into his soft belly and his wrists ached with the cuffs. </p><p>It worked. Malcolm looked. And when he saw the moisture glistening on Martin’s cheeks, his lips parted and pulled in a surprised breath.</p><p>“Go get ‘em. You’ll do great kiddo,” Martin smiled, forcing a glimmer of life back into his eyes. </p><p>Bright only grit his jaw and nodded, moving towards Dani on autopilot. </p><p>Mr. David remained in the cell as the pair left, the barrier creaking as it slid shut behind them with a clang, the bolts sliding into place with an air of finality.</p><p>“What the hell was that?” Dani turned, looking at Malcolm with a sideways glance through her curls as they walked down the corridor. </p><p>“What do you mean?” </p><p>“You know what I mean,” she sounded wary. “You were hugging him, Malcolm. You crossed the line.” </p><p>Her words fell like a slap upon his cheek, like the reprimand he felt he deserved but would never receive without the confession of what he'd done. </p><p>He had crossed the line.</p><p>If only she knew.</p>
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